Anomalies
by a starr in photo
Summary: Their lives are like patterns, they fall into rhythm. But humans aren't music, and Mycroft and Lestrade find that they are confronted with dissonance, hiccups in their beats. Life is full of anomalies. Eventual Slash. Mystrade
1. Chapter 1

The day had started off as normal as any other day could be, as a detective inspector for Scotland Yard. Gregory Lestrade awoke two minutes before his alarm clock, set deliberately at 4:02 for that very reason. He groaned, rolling half heartedly out of his bed, creating the usual thud as he hit the wooden floor. He had pulled on his gym shorts and a ratty old t-shirt before he laced his trainers and hit the road. It was barely sunrise, the sky only beginning to lighten as he began the usual hour long trek around the park and back to his apartment where he promptly stripped and took a shower.

He arrived at Scotland Yard at 5:30 exactly, the same as every morning that he wasn't called in early to look at a crime scene, and was greeted by the usual receptionist. He collected his files and began the dreadful paperwork. He loved his job; he really did, despite putting up with Sherlock, and Sally and Anderson. The paperwork though, that he could do without. His phone rang periodically during the day, most bearing news of little interest the way it always did, and so when he picked it up off the cradle he wasn't expecting anything of the sort to come through across the line.

"DI Lestrade?" The voice had questioned. He didn't recognize it, though that wasn't particularly out of the usual.

"Speaking?" He had responded, almost hoping that someone had gotten killed, just so he wouldn't have to finish typing up the report explaining why exactly they had a bill for Chinese food as case expenses, courtesy of Holmes.

"I regret to inform you that Elizabeth Michaels was involved in a motor accident this morning. She was rushed to the hospital but passed on en route. I'm to understand that custody of Abigail Michaels passes to you," the voice explained, solemn, caring. Lestrade had no idea how to respond. His mouth opened and closed a few times before finally coming to grips with what had been laid out on the table.

"Where can I pick her up?"

It was that phone call, at approximately 9:25 and three seconds that had completely and entirely uprooted the very foundation that Gregory Lestrade's life sat upon.

It also happened to be that phone call that had uprooted the very foundation that Mycroft Holmes's life sat upon, but for an entirely different reason all together.

There really was no such thing as a normal day for Mycroft Holmes, it was a difficult concept when on any given day he could be starting a war, or passing legislation allowing men to marry monkeys or diffusing a situation in North Korea. He had risen from the couch in his office at six on the dot, after only two and a half hours of sleep, and his assistant stood at the door, his change of clothes on a hanger in one hand, and a cup of tea in the other.

He paused, giving her an inquisitive glance, waiting for her name of the day. Sure enough, it came within moments, "Persephone," she replied brightly, handing off both of the items and retrieving her beloved Blackberry from her pocket, setting right away to texting. It was a little ridiculous really, how many phones she went through in a month. But the keyboards wore out, and an agitated Anthea, or Zena, or Penelope was not something Mycroft was particularly fond of.

"Right, I'll be out in a moment, we have a meeting with the Queen in a few hours," he told her, though the information was a little superfluous, she knew his schedule better than he did. She nodded and stepped out of the room. Mycroft moved to the bathroom in his office, fully equipped with a shower, because he spent very little time at home, and nine minutes and forty six seconds later, he emerged fully dressed, clean shaven, and well groomed.

The next two hours had been relatively boring; just a few minor negotiations between some of the large businesses in England, and finally Pandora had come to collect him for their trip to the queen. He hadn't particularly expected anything from the woman as they sat in the back of one of many cars. He certainly hadn't expected her brow to furrow as she clicked away on her phone, and he definitely hadn't expected her to lock the screen and slip the Blackberry into her lap, and he hadn't expected the fleeting look of worry across her face.

"What's wrong?" He couldn't help but ask, unable to deduce it for himself.

"We've been wrong, sir," she responded, more than a little confused. Mycroft was taken aback. It wasn't that they were never wrong, it happened on occasion, he might have very well been the entire British Government, but he was still a human, and those working for him were exceptionally more so. Rather, he was taken aback by how Aphrodite was taking it. They must have made a rather large mistake for her to be so concerned about his reaction.

"What sort of mistake?"

"Our information about Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was not entirely correct. Rather, it wasn't very correct at all," Juno explained to him, holding his gaze for a few moments before lifting her phone back up and resuming her texting.

"How so," Mycroft grimaced, wondering how they could have been wrong. He had codes for nuclear weapons on a sticky note in his pocket, he was privy to all of the information that he ever could have wanted.

"It seems he got a phone call a few moments ago from a woman from social services. His ex-wife seems to have been involved in an accident; she died on her way to the hospital." His assistant explained further, still focused on the phone in front of her.

"I thought we concluded that the Detective Inspector was not in a relationship and had not been nor considered marriage," Mycroft furrowed his brow, this wasn't a simple slip up, this was a very major mistake, and he couldn't be sure which dot along the communication line had been mistaken.

"We did, I said we made a mistake. That's not all though."

Mycroft remained silent; Hera would continue along on her own, he was sure. His mind was reeling though, trying to grasp the new information presented to him. It seemed unfathomable, that they had been wrong about something so major.

"Oh," Anthea continued, "he has a daughter."

Mycroft had no words.


	2. Chapter 2

The drive was excruciatingly long; Lestrade couldn't help but note as he sat in the back of a taxi cab on his way across the country. The woman from social services had offered to have her brought to him, to London, but Gregory couldn't bring himself to do that. She was scared, no doubt, and alone. And though he had only seen her a few times in her short life, at least he was a familiar face. He glanced at his watch; they should have arrived four minutes ago. With a low growl, he leaned forward to ask the cabbie.

"Are we there yet?"

There was no response, only light breaks as the taxi pulled over to the curb in front of the building. Lestrade didn't bother for the car to come to a complete stop before he half ran half leapt from the cab with a casual, "wait here, I'll be right back." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself before he walked through the door.

The lobby was classy, but reeked of antiseptic and lavender. He couldn't help but be reminded of a doctor's office. Lestrade approached the front desk, pulling out his badge reflexively. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm here about Abigail Michaels," he introduced, brows knit tightly together.

The secretary nodded in understanding and pressed a button on the intercom. "She'll be out in a moment, please have a seat in our waiting area." The woman smiled softly, sympathetically. Gregory just nodded, wringing his hands together as he sat down in an arm chair. It was closer to ten minutes than a moment before the back door opened, and the little girl walked out with a shriek and a "daddy," before running to him and flinging her arms around his neck.

"Abby," he murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist and lifting her off the ground. He swallowed the lump in his throat and held her just a little bit tighter. He didn't notice the woman who had walked out with the girl until she cleared her throat, high heel tapping against the tile. Situating the tiny girl on his hip, he turned to the other woman. "Her things? I'd like to get home."

It had taken nearly half an hour for the social services woman and Lestrade to pack up the suitcases filled with Abigail's things. The department had given him a car seat for the three year old, and after buckling her in, they had begun the journey home. She was quiet, unnervingly so. He remembered the last time she had visited him in the city, chatty, bubbling. Abby had asked so many questions that he hadn't been able to keep up. She had only been three then. Now four, she didn't seem any bigger, still a little peanut. From what Lestrade had gathered, Abby had been on the sidewalk when Elizabeth had been hit by a drunk driver, she had seen the whole thing.

He reached out, stroking her thin blond hair. Gregory had been devastated when Elizabeth had left him, with only a note saying that she was pregnant, and that she couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't bear to take the ring off, and it never left his finger, not even for a shower. She had returned to his life for a fleeting moment, requesting that he be present when his child was born and dragging him off to the end of the world. He had fed her ice chips, and held her hand. And when Abigail had made her way into the world, he was the first to hold her. He had begged and pleaded with Elizabeth to stay, to let him help raise their child, but she had torn Abby away from him, ripped his only daughter from his life.

Elizabeth had returned again on Abby's first birthday, allowing Greg to be present for the key milestones. And already chattering away, she had quickly learned how to say "daddy," a word she reserved for him. He didn't see her on her next birthday, it was 18 months before he saw her again, even his powers at Scotland Yard hadn't been able to track down his ex-wife and child; he was at the mercy of her whim. He had been worried, so worried that she wouldn't remember him, but the moment she saw him, she threw herself at him.

It was what he had always wished for, really, he noted as he watched her little eyelids flutter closed. She was coming to live with him, and though it wasn't at all the circumstances he had hoped for, had ever dreamed for, Greg couldn't help the small smile that played across his lips. His daughter was coming home.

Mycroft had finally found his words. He had been stunned into silence for the rest of the trip, and only when they had returned to his office did he manage to finally utter out a few phrases on the topic.

"Persephone, please clarify, what happened to all of the legal documents, marriage license, divorce papers," confused was an understatement, "we ruled out marriage despite the gold band because there was absolutely nothing to indicate a romantic involvement. What did we miss?" He hooked the umbrella over his forearm as they walked side by side back into the building.

Zena was still typing away on her Blackberry, and waited a few moments, and a few strides before looking up from the phone to respond to her boss. "We missed the papers because they weren't married in the country, from further research it appears that the wedding was more than a little impromptu the day after they met on a little island off of the coast of Africa. The certificate was acquired through the local government and not recognized by the British government. The subsequent divorce was also done through the Seychelles Government." Hera explained, stringing together a much longer reason than Mycroft would have normally expected from the woman.

"And the child?"

"It appears that the child, Abigail Michaels, was born in Lebanon. The hospital had a fire and the records were lost. It wasn't until Elizabeth Michaels' will was studied that the British Government recognized that Detective Inspector Lestrade was the father of the child, he's not listed on her birth certificate," she added, laying the facts out for the elder Holmes.

She smirked slightly, a knowing look on her face. Pandora knew precisely why he was so intent on the Detective Inspector. She wasn't about to run her mouth off, she wasn't the type, but noting the smirk, he reminded himself to check her recent texts later. He had hired her for her uncanny ability to preempt him, and her willingness to adhere to his bizarre schedule, but she was a bit of a gossip, something he was working on taming out of her.

"I'll be in my office," he called to her, picking the umbrella from his arm and used it as a cane as he walked back into his sanctuary. Nobody bothered him in there, not unless they had instructions to do so, Anthea when she woke him each morning. He held his meetings in a conference room, aside from the casual run in with Sherlock, or far more commonly, John Watson. He had a flat, though the thing was practically useless. He was quite well equipped at his office; there was rarely a need to return to the flat.

He settled into the couch, and for a moment, just a brief moment, he allowed himself to feel something. Shock, disappointment. It had been so long since he had taken time out of his busy schedule to feel something, he was a Holmes after all, Mummy would be so proud. The moment passed, and he returned to his desk, calling to Penelope over the intercom, letting her know that they'd be leaving in a few moments.

He gave the US President a ring, just for the fun of it, carrying on a casual conversation about the war in Afghanistan, a note about John in the back of his head, wondering if the man still wanted to go back or if he was more than happy with Sherlock. Mycroft hung up the phone and gathered his things, coat and umbrella before leaving the office.

There was work to be done, observations to be made. After all, there was a whole new door open to him, so much information that he hadn't already collected. He checked his cell phone, checking on his brother's current location, and then on Lestrade's. Yes, plenty of work to be done. Mycroft would certainly be making the most of it. Gregory certainly was the most interesting character to watch. And now, a father. Mycroft was practically gleeful.


End file.
